


All that matters

by Entomancy



Series: Divergence [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Voltz, Yoglabs, warning for needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entomancy/pseuds/Entomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in the Labs, we learn more about what Zephos' altered intentions for the facility now comprise; and get a glimpse of how much it might cost him.</p><p>Very unsafe use of Red Matter, the dangers of a dubiously-consensual Op, and consideration of the therapeutic powers of bacon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that matters

There were no complete maps of the Yog.Labs installation. This was partly due to secrecy concerns – even with the very _determined_ staff security forces, there were still leaks, after all – and partly because of the changing nature of the building levels. New tunnels and rooms were being constantly cut out of the deep rock below, and there was quite a turnover of lab spaces at the best of times, with the ongoing likelihood of explosions or incursions, or any number of possible everyday catastrophes.

You knew what you needed to know. It had been like that, since even before Zephos had taken his first steps into those sterilised hallways, and there had been no reason to change anything since. If it ain’t broke –

– well, break it utterly, and see what you can do with the pieces, but the principle remained.

Even by Lab standards though, this room was a long way off the map. It was a huge space and mostly empty, with the walls still baring marks where other elements had been removed – broken gantry brackets, welded-shut channels for pipes or cabling bundles – and lit by table-sized white lamps, unforgivingly cemented to the walls. A heavy coil of grey cables hung down in the centre of the room, wrapped around a much finer, much _brighter_ tube that vanished up into the distant roof. The knot of cabling thinned as it fell down, until it came to a punctuating end in a long needle that gleamed malevolently in the harsh light, hanging over the single chair that was bolted into the floor.

The only other fixture in the room right now was a control console, quite a long way further back, surrounded by half a bubble of thick, oil-sheen glass. Zephos peered out through the curved surface, which had been carefully cut so that it magnified rather than distorted the view of the chair and its occupant.

Ridge could make any seat look like a throne. Even now, there was an edge of easy lounging to his pose, as he finished fastidiously rolling the sleeve up on his right arm, tucking the crisp white fabric into place across his bicep. His arm was held in place along the extended rest of the chair, strapped firmly down at the wrist and just below the elbow, the underside turned up towards the long needle’s waiting point.

He didn’t look worried. But he never did.

Zephos’ fingers twitched against the console edge and he looked down, a little surprised at the white-knuckle tightness that shook along his hands, and made an effort to relax them. It was the proximity, that was all. Even behind the glassy shield, specifically designed to dampen any uncontrolled spillover, he could _feel_ Ridge; the sense of him pressed up against Zephos’ own altered core like the constant, curling grasp of brilliant claws. Exhilarating and terrifying, all at once, in a way that nothing else was anymore.

 _Focus, Zephos_.

He tried to shake off the strange mood and leaned forward, reaching towards the microphone button – but Ridge looked up before he could reach it, his dark gaze glittering like points of captured midnight even under the clinical-white lamps.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, and the voice was black honey in Zephos’ mind, as he shivered and began to run his automatic fingers over the preparations. For want of anywhere else to look, his gaze fixed onto the fine, bright conduit just visible in the centre of the surrounding tubes. Contrary to its delicate appearance, that was probably the most advanced _technological_ thing in there.

It had to be, to run a liquid sample of raw red matter from the ridiculously-serious containment level high above – and a small smile crooked at Zephos’ lips at the thought of the faces that the other senior staff members would make, if they ever found out what they were doing down here. Of course, he had seen what the stuff could do, so much closer than anyone with any semblance of sanity should ever attempt.

_\- wind howled in his ears, a screaming typhoon of clawing, grasping air that tangled itself around him, tearing at his clothes, his skin, as he insanely followed the flow of it further into the crumbling earth –_

The power to trigger miniature black holes was one thing of great interest to the Labs, and Zephos had paid very close attention to the reports coming out of that division. They were close, _very_ close to developing a stable, predictable device, and the applications were obvious, profitable – and entirely uninteresting for _his_ purposes. Mere destruction didn’t matter.

 **Disconnection** mattered. What Sjin had unleashed out there, accidentally, put together in his own lunatic way in the former Sipsco facilities, was very far away from the shackled little monster that the Labs were creating. That bomb – _the_ bomb – had actually interfered with Ridge.

_'I can’t stay… connected long enough to fix this.'_

Nothing was supposed to be able to do that. Not from here. But if something _could –_ if there was a way to disrupt what should be untouchable by all possible means _–_ then there could be a way to _restore_ it.

There was a faint hiss from high above, as Zephos pressed the final sequence, and the coiling tubes shifted slightly. He stared up, seeing with the strange, stark clarity his vision now had, as the finest thread of impossible crimson began to descend the tube. Underneath, Ridge leaned back and looked up, seemingly unconcerned as he tracked the progress of the scarlet gleam down towards him; towards his waiting, exposed skin.

Zephos counted under his breath, echoing the little countdown that flashed beside his fingers. Five times. Five times he had stood here, running his fingers across the controls, as close to nervous as he had been in so long now – so very long – as he had injected the elegant figure in the chair with a substance that, in all other circumstances, _ate matter_.

Then he would watch, pinioned between anticipation and horror, as Ridge’s expression shut down, his usually so-assured face going unsettlingly blank as he slowly flexed his fingers. A moment of strain, casting its strange echo back up through the invaded depths of Zephos’ own patchwork soul – and then nothing. Not right. Not like it had been.

Give Sjin his due, not many people could whip up a twisted miracle while trying to make explosives. It was _replicating_ it that was proving difficult, and the mad little bastard was remarkably resistant to what interrogations even Ridge could throw at him.

Possibly even he didn’t know what he had done. Quite hard to tell for sure, now.

Zephos shook away the thoughts, the faint echo of bloodstained laughter, and turned his attention back to the apparatus before him. The little trail of red had reached the needle now, and he gripped the final activation lever as he heard the countdown tick through its last increments.

Two – one – _now_.

He pulled the lever and the needle bit home, sinking into the upturned flesh of Ridge’s forearm. There was another small shift in the tube above, a slight flicker in Ridge’s face as the machinery bore down.

And then he started to scream.

Zephos’ hands slammed down into the console as utter shock took his balance, moments before the rebound of that cry poured out of the back of his own mind, his arm spasming in translated pain as Ridge jerked horribly and arced back against the chair. His permanent composure broke away as he clawed at his pinned arm, the restraints heaving and twisting under his desperate strength, his heels skidding against the floor as he tried to pull away and stand, achieving neither.

It was hurting him.

It was _hurting_ him.

A sickening elation whirled up through Zephos’ mind as he stared, mesmerized by the sight, with his fingers shaking as he brought them up to hover over the controls. He wanted to shut it off – _and_ he wanted to wrench down on that lever with everything he had left, again and again and _again_ ; to see the tubes shatter with the force of it, watch as the critical mass exceeded, as the unleashed impossibility tore this whole place to seething, howling nothing and took that hells-damned dandy with it. He wanted -

He wanted -

And then Ridge’s gaze locked with his own, and Zephos felt the shock-paralysis lift, felt his own hand dance its practised steps across the panel, and all other thoughts drained away like water into sand. The needle jerked upwards, trailing smoke from the warped tip, and Ridge crumpled, folding like an unstrung puppet as he slid down the chair.

“ _Je_ sus, Ridge!” Zephos darted around the shielding glass, his footsteps echoing against the grid floor, and dropped down, grabbing onto the fallen man’s sleek shoulders. Ridge’s face was twisted in pain, sweat suddenly slung out across his forehead, and he was gripping his injured arm hard, as if making a tourniquet with his own bone-knuckled fingers. This close there was an acrid, ozone scent to the air, and Zephos looked down in horror at the shifting mess of flesh where the needle had pierced. Bits of it seemed to be only half-there, fading and blurring out like a bad film before snapping back into clarity again.

_Oh god. Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to – was it?_

“Ridge? _Ridge!_ ” He tightened his grip, feeling the static-scald of the man under his fingers through the increasingly-crumpled shirt, his own heart racing and suddenly frantic in his chest. “What do I do? _What do I do?_ ”

Helpless. He hadn’t felt _helpless_ in so long now, not since the Black Site, not since _that_ night, and the sense was an icy nausea crawling up his throat, twisting under his lungs as the air seemed to thin around him. Ridge’s eyes were screwed shut, his face contorted, but his lips twitched slightly. Zephos leaned in further, until the harsh rasp of breathing stirred across his own face.

“What?”

“Take – this – ” Ridge managed, through clenched teeth, and he jerked his injured arm up, clamping his shaking fingers down onto Zephos’ shoulder. Their gazes met again and Zephos saw a flicker there, somewhere in the pitiless depths of those eyes and his throat went dry.

“ – no – _please_ – ” he whispered, but Ridge’s fingers were already tightening against him, sinking through the fabric of his own shirt as if it wasn’t even there. Then his nails broke the skin, agony blooming there like burning roses and Zephos let out a cry, hands jerking up to grip onto Ridge’s forearm.  The muscles still shifted and spasmed under his grip, crackling sharp little darts up through his hands – but it was nothing, _nothing_ to the searing river that swept through him now, as he felt his own altered nature start to howl, thrashing against the sudden influx of twisting, tainted, power.

Ridge stood up, dragging Zephos into an awkward half-crouch, until his grip on the bracing arm failed and he slumped forwards, shuddering violently as poisoned potential poured into him, swapped out down their shared – _inflicted_ – connection.

“You’re doing very well,” Ridge murmured, stroking his free hand gently through Zephos’ hair, even as his other fingers bit even deeper into his shoulder, spilling acid-hot agony. Zephos couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but press his face into the pinstriped thigh beside him, muffling his own screams against the expensive fabric. Burning nausea whirled up his throat, tearing at his lips from the inside as a violent spasm bent him in half, knees jerking against the floor, but Ridge’s iron grip remained umoving, pinning him down and holding him up at the same time.

Then he let go. Zephos crumpled, collapsing against the cold metal below, and a strangled wail clawed its way out of him, echoing around the room with unpleasant, strange harmonics. He was _burning –_

 _– burning, as the invading power surged along the fine network of bloody slices, etched into his writhing flesh with vicious precision, as Ridge’s cut fingers dug further into him, spilling more of his own seething blood into Zephos’ split-open skin. The room, the Black Site, everything was dissolving around them, and_ he _was unravelling, tearing apart as the incandescent tide stormed through him.  It swept aside any remaining flickers of his own resistance, brief bursts of fading horror – until there was nothing else, nothing but the shattered halls of his broken mind, made ever-burning in the pure, terrible brilliance of molten gold._

_And Ridge. Just Ridge, the unleashed heart of him; no illusions now, no idle lies of careless mortality, surrounding and engulfing the splintered ashes of Zephos’ mind – as impossible fingers curled around each wisp of his incinerated self, and began to draw them back together._

_“Let’s see, shall we?” the voice was an all-pervading oil, rising around – into – through – him, all at once, but there was barely enough of_ that _left to even be horrified, as he felt his scattered flickers of mind turn under that grasp, shiver and reform, as Ridge’s undeniable intent swept them up._

_“Who shall we make you, Zephos?”_

_He couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think anymore, and he was_ **burning** _–_

– and there were footsteps beside his face, as Ridge crouched down beside him and laid a now-steady hand on his cheek.

“Try not to die, Zeph. That would be… inconvenient.” He patted his face, each touch like serrated-static against his flesh, then was gone, leaving nothing but the fading click of neat boots and the handover firestorm in his blood.

No one knew he was here. It was almost a complete thought, weaving in amongst the ravenous flames that dragged at his mind, and Zephos tried to grasp hold of it, give himself something to focus on. _He_ barely knew where ‘here’ was anymore – after finding the location the first time, he had generally returned by teleporting, resolving with borrowed ease on the same grated floor he was now crumpled against. But there seemed to be nothing but agony to his altered state now, and he gave another low whimper as his fists tightened and he felt skin split along his knuckles.

Twenty-eight days without a fatality. New record. Maybe he’d get a plaque somewhere.

Zephos gritted his teeth, prompting an unpleasant crunch from somewhere towards the back of his mouth, and a wash of gritty copper across his tongue. Just one more trip. One more, the one he’d used the the most, that he knew, better than almost anything else. The memory flickered like a dying lamp, but it was enough, and he caught around the sense of it – of _him_ – with every charring scrap of self he had left.

 _Honeydew_.

The shift was horrible, this time; the world seemed to clamp down over him, a shroud of razors tearing at his flesh and echoed from within, and Zephos couldn’t even manage a groan as everything reformed around him, wavering like a fever-haze.

Corridor. Didn’t know which one. Empty. Must’ve moved – or his aim was as broken as the rest of him.

There were stairs, just off to one side, and he managed to pry himself up onto his shaking elbows as he dragged himself onward. There was blood running freely down his face now, bubbling in his strangled breathing, and he blinked hard, trying to see anything through the blur of pain and thickened tears that occluded his vision.

Were those footsteps? Somewhere above him, even as he slumped forward against the stairs, barely caring anymore – as the breath caught and snapped in his chest like something was trying to get out, and pressure hammered against the inside of his head. He was very dimly aware that he should care, should be more concerned about the staff seeing him like this – but that sort of worry seemed very, very far away right now.

_Would you miss me?_

“Fucking _christ!_ Zephos!” There was a metallic clang, just outside the scalded blur of his senses, and Zephos felt a dull pressure latch onto his shoulders. The overhead lights were suddenly on his face as someone flipped him over, shaking him as his head lolled back, and he drooled a new line of diluted blood across his own jaw. There was cursing, somewhere out there, and a firm, determined grasp against his chest – and then the darkness finally folded closed over him, and even his burning awareness faded out.

-

He awoke to the scent of bacon. This was sufficiently different to anything he might have expected that Zephos hesitated, quashing the immediate urge to open his eyes.

Everything hurt; but it was a dull ache now, rather than the brilliant agony that had made up his last experience of consciousness. He was lying down – bare but unbound, a quick panicked check assured him – surrounded by something soft, and…

There was definitely bacon. His stomach – clearly deciding that the rest of him was incapable of sensible decisions, right now – growled loudly, and this time he did open his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling in surprise . He was hungry. When was the last time he’d actually been _hungry_?

“An’ yet again, behold the rejuvenating power of humble pork products!” Honeydew’s voice was like a thump in the back, and Zephos sat up quickly – regretting the movement almost immediately, each of his muscles seemed to go off in minor spasms of protest, and all he could manage was a muffled ‘gnk’ of reply. Hands clapped onto his shoulders, pushing him back firmly but not unkindly into a pile of pillows, and a moment later he found a plate being shoved into his shaking fingers, stacked to structural-uncertainty with glistening strips of meat.

Honeydew plonked himself down on the other end of the bed – it _was_ a bed, wide if a little short – holding his own plate, and pushed a bowl of rather misshapen bread rolls into the hummock of blankets between them. He gestured at Zephos with a fork.

“Get that down yer neck. You’re too fuckin’ thin, Zeph, I swear.”

There might have been a way to respond that wasn’t to fall on the plate like a starving man, but Zephos’ stomach did seem to have got firm hold of his intentions right now, and he acceded to the gastric insistence. He could barely remember the last time he’d eaten – so many things had become so easy to ignore, to adjust himself away from with a twist of boosted thought – but he was _damn_ sure it hadn’t tasted as good as this.

Between them, even the bread never stood a chance. By the time Zephos flopped back into the pillows again, as Honeydew retrieved plates, he felt distinctly more human.

Which was an achievement in itself, really.

Unaccustomed appetite now satiated, he cast a curious glance around at the rest of the room. They were clearly in Honeydew’s quarters – decorated in that particular ‘explosion in a junkroom’ style of his – and Zephos’ gaze tracked around the space, alighting on the familiar and unfamiliar alike.

He struggled to recall what his own rooms actually looked like. Sparser. Unfrequented. There was always so much to _do_ , always elsewhere, and he’d never been a big fan of sleep at the best of times.

Honeydew was stacking the plates on the other side of the room, beside a small stove that had been set up in a cleared bit of floor, and Zephos realised there was a low camp-bed assembled nearby. He looked down at himself, swathed in the layered blankets of the real bed, and felt a sudden twist of guilt.

 _Oh_.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly, and the words baulked in his throat at the sheer magnitude of _unsaid_ that spiralled around them; but he had to try. “Honeydew, I – if I was being _weird_ , I – ”

“Weird?” Honeydew looked back over his shoulder, a slightly incredulous expression on his face. “Mate, I think you were vomiting _lava,_ back there. Went right through the bucket. An’ the floor.” He jerked a thumb, over to where a crude repair had been made in the distinctly-singed carpet, consisting mostly of wooden planks held down with large bricks.

“...oh.” Zephos raised a hand to his mouth, half-deliberately, and ran the knuckles across his lips. They were whole again. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well,” Honeydew said, gruffly, as he finished faffing with crockery and stood back up, stomping back over to the bed, and leaned over to jab one thick finger at Zephos’ chest. “That’s no problem, but whatever crazy shit you’ve been dicking about with? You want to stop it. Damn near gave me a fucking heart attack.” He dropped the gesture and sat down instead, narrowly missing Zephos’ legs, and fixed him with a hard stare.

“You get yourself killed, and where’ll I be, eh? I mean, everyone balls up sometimes, but – bloody _hell_ , Zeph!” He exclaimed, tugging off his helmet for a moment so he could shake out his braids, before ramming the metal dome back into place. “I swear you were _bleeding sand_ at one point. Just… don’t _do_ that, alright? Fuckin’ freaks me out. Christ.”

“It wasn’t… planned,” Zephos managed, weakly, and Honeydew snorted.

“Yeah, well it’s bloody hard to explain to them nosey bastards upstairs.” He nodded towards the door and pulled a face. “Brightmeer’s a pillock, I don’t mind sayin’.”

Zephos hesitated. While he was quite sure that none of the other senior staff were aware of the _entirety_ of him – he had made certain of that, on a few occasions – this could be a problem.

“What _did_ you say?” he asked carefully. Honeydew smirked, which wasn’t an expression he had expected.

“Told ‘em you’d been groanin’ in my sheets for a week, and if they got issue with that, they’d be taking it up with you in due course.”

Zephos’ eyes bulged.

“ _What?_ ”

The dwarf gave one of his rumbling guffaws and slapped him gently on the shoulder.

“I ain’t the best liar, so figured I’d let everyone else do the bein’ awkward for me, here. It’s technically true. Not my fault if anyone takes a thing as open to interpretation.”

Zephos stared at him, a half-dozen different reactions queuing for deployment just behind his shock – but it was laughter that won out, capturing all his breath as he flopped back again, pressing his hand over his face as he snorted.

“Good _god_ ,” he managed, as Honeydew chuckled. “I don’t even – I have a _weapons proficiency_ coming up!”

“No harm then, if there’s thinkin’ your weapon’s pretty damn proficient?” Honeydew waggled his eyebrows and Zephos dissolved into a fresh wave of laughter.

It felt good.

“I’ve missed this,” he managed, somewhere between breaths, shaking his head. “I just – everything’s been so – crazy, for so long now…” he trailed off, the laugher fading as he met Honeydew’s suddenly-sober gaze. The dwarf shrugged, and looked down at his feet, swinging against the side of the bed.

“Aye, well. Sometimes... I kinda wish it was like the old days, y’know? You ‘an me, against whatever random shit decided to crop up. Don’t get me wrong!” He added, quickly, as Zephos stared at him. “This is all – I mean, you’re doing great things here, right? I’ll help, as much as I can, whenever I can, I just…” he trailed off and chuckled, tugging at his beard. “I’m just a jealous little dwarf sometimes, s’all.”

Zephos kept staring at him, stupidly, as the words seemed to settle like a grey snow around them. This shouldn’t bother him. Nothing should, that was the whole goddamn _point;_ all his uncertainties, all his pathetic little hesitations, burned clean away under the brilliant core of instilled gold that had been sunken through the heart of him.

 _We’re going to have to do this the difficult way_.

But it was all… numb, right now. The constant shiver of intruded power, the sharpened echo of Ridge’s smooth confidence curled around the base of his thoughts – everything seemed a little further away, a little _bruised_ , almost. Not as close. Not as complete.

 _Oh god_.

Zephos bit down on his own shortening breath, as he pulled his knees up towards him, and wrapped his arms around the blankets there, staring forwards as a different sort of heat began to prickle at the side of his eyes. He was vaguely aware of Honeydew talking again – of his own name, repeated, worried – but nothing was getting through, as the memories began to rise, oozing up over the sides of his mind like blood under a locked door.

 _'You’re doing great things here_.'

Even then, the first sob took him by surprise, sending him hunching over into his forearms as he pressed his forehead against them and gritted his teeth. There was movement, somewhere outside his little universe of sudden horror, and he shuddered violently as thick arms caught onto his shoulders, pulling him into a hairy embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Honeydew… oh god, I’m – I’m _sorry_ – I don’t – ” his words cut out in another choked sound, and the arms tightened.

“Hey, c’mon now,” the dwarf said, a little gruffly, and gave Zephos a small shake. “None of that, y’hear? You’ve got nothing t’apologise for. Not to me, friend, alright? We saved each other’s arses too many times t’be worrying about all that.”

It didn’t help. It didn’t, because he could still _feel_ it and he couldn’t turn it off – not like he usually could, not without Ridge’s gift of control; when he could choose _not to,_ like with sleep, like with hunger, like any of these stupid, _stupid_ little mortal encumbrances that were just in his way. In their way.

It all had to be done. And if not them – if not _him_ – then who else?

 _Great things_.

And yet...

“What we’ve done here,” he gasped, screwing his eyes closed as if that would help, clutching desperately at both the encircling arms, and towards the suddenly-distant brilliance inside his mind, clawing mental fingers down the horribly unresponsive surface of it. “And… and even before…”

“Look, I never claimed to understand any of that stuff,” Honeydew continued, shaking him again in some emphasis he didn’t understand. “That was you and Lalna’s thing. I’m a simple dwarf. Diggin’, and drinkin’ and spectacular pig rearin’ skills, that’s me – and that’s okay. I never worried about it.”

He didn’t understand. That, at least was something to hold onto, as Zephos gave up on coherence, his breath coming in halting gasps, and he broke down. It was ridiculous. It was petty and pathetic and all those things he was supposed to have left behind, burned and bled out of him on that cold table, so many endless nights ago. But it would never leave this place, and that was almost alright.

He must have slept, eventually, because he woke again in darkness, with Honeydew’s rattling snore bounding between the walls. He had been tucked back into the bed; the dwarf was slumped against the side, leaning back against the mattress edge at a distinctly uncomfortable-looking angle.  Zephos watched him, unable to move, for a long time.

He was still here. He had always been here.

 _He_ didn’t deserve that; he really didn’t. The rest of his altered nature was returning, he could feel it even now, and his lips thinned. Everything else it could take, again – but not this. He had to _remember_ this. Really remember.

_Not him. Let everything else burn, if we need it to. But not him._

Morning was a bit of an arbitrary distinction when most of the facility was underground, but some semblance of it arrived anyway. It was a little awkward – Honeydew chattered away rapidly enough, as he hunted around in the assorted piles of things for Zephos’ clothes, or closest equivalents – but there was a wariness to it, and Zephos caught him frowning at him a few times, looking slightly puzzled. He ignored that, as he made as much of an attempt to wash in the dwarf-scaled ensuite as he could, and examined the state of his shirt. It was a little charred at the edges, but the blood seemed to have come out well enough, and it wouldn’t be long before he was back to dealing with things like _that_ at a gesture.

Still. He should do _something_.

“Is there anything you’d like, friend?” he asked, as he wriggled into the still half-buttoned garment and began to fiddle with the cuffs. Honeydew, who had sat back on the unmade bed to get out of the way, paused in the middle of a mild tirade about the coffee machine – again – and quirked a bushy brow.

“Eh?”

“You know – ” Zephos waved a hand around the cluttered room, vaguely. “In here? I mean, if there’s anything you want, you know you only need to ask me.”

A strange expression flickered across the visible portion of Honeydew’s face, just for a moment, then he shrugged.

“I guess a pet’d be nice? Yeah, I know – ” he held up a hand, quickly, before Zephos could say anything. “Lab policy, and all that. Not like a pig, or anything _big._ ” He sniffed slightly and glanced aside at something in the mess, although Zephos couldn’t be sure what. “Just be nice t’have, I dunno, somethin’ to talk to.”

Zephos tried not to think about what had happened last time the dwarf had set his affections onto one of the experimental creatures. But maybe there was something he could do; within reason. He gave a small, hopefully-reassuring smile.

“I’ll… see what I can do. See if we can’t bend the rules, just this once.”

He drew his fingers through his wet hair, standing over the little sink, and did up the last few buttons.

“We could leave, y’know.” Honeydew’s voice was quiet, but Zephos’ hands tightened against the basin edge at the words even so. “If you wanted to. Just walk the fuck out of here. Find out what Lalna’s up to these days, or something. Anything you want.”

 _Anything I want_.

He looked up, meeting the reflected gaze, and saw the seriousness in Honeydew's expression. He meant it; of course he did. He didn’t _understand_.

Hopefully he never would.

Zephos unlatched his grip carefully and turned round, straightening his collar as he moved over to the bed and sat back down, a thin smile curling his lips.

“Sometimes I wish I had your optimism, friend,” he said, laughing quietly as he clapped his hand onto Honeydew’s shoulder. The dwarf flashed his own, slightly bemused, smile back.

“Aye, well, one’ve us has gotta be the – ” he started, but cut out as Zephos’ fingers snaked up, pressing firmly into the back of his neck, and he toppled backwards without a sound. Zephos reached down, carefully inching around under the dwarf’s braids, until he found the small rectangle of shaved skin, just below his helmet-line, and his fingertips made a series of well-remembered movements against the subdermal lumps there.

Honeydew gave a small sigh and seemed to slump further inward; Zephos stood back and watched the bristly face relax – the slight frown of earlier, the dark circles from lack of sleep, all fading as the reset implant took hold.

He was better off not remembering this; any of it. He always had been.

_Don’t worry about that._

Zephos fingers tightened again, curling against themselves, and he pressed his balled fists into his thighs.

“I’m sorry, friend,” he muttered softly, as he took another step back towards the door – lists of tasks already starting to scroll across his thoughts, waiting, ready – and he took a long look at the unconscious dwarf, before the door slid closed again behind him, and he rested his forehead against it, breathing slowly.

“I really am.”

-


End file.
